


They Call Me Coffee (Because I Grind So Fine)

by Her_Madjesty



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Masturbation, Unrecognized feelings, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vibrators, inappropriate gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: “Something on my face, Tethras?” Hawke calls.Varric laughs. The sound echoes through the parking lot and bounces off of the other buildings. “You want the pleasure of my company this morning or not, Hawke?”Still in the t-shirt she slept in, ragged and tasting of mocha, Hawke smirks. “Oh, when have I ever been able to say no to you?”





	They Call Me Coffee (Because I Grind So Fine)

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into the Dragon Age II fandom after playing through the game! I spent some time over in the Fenris/Female Hawke tag, but Varric...gets me. I'm wildly fond of this ship and hope this piece does the two of them justice.

The balcony of the apartment Hawke shares with her sister is a weak, wooden thing, but its railing is sturdy enough to hold her weight in the early hours of the morning when she leans against it, sucking the taste of green and smoke off of a joint and into her lungs. Marian squints into the sunrise. In an hour, Bethany will be due at work, where she can magick code to life, while Marian has another five hours before her shift at Falafel’s begins. The early morning does nothing for her, and reasonably speaking, she should go back to bed, but there are goosebumps on her skin and a monster living in her head that Marian has no desire to feed with her nightmares. So she leans, and she smokes, and below her, her motorcycle gleams in the red hues of sunrise.

“Morning, stranger,” a familiar voice calls. Hawke struggles not to drop her joint. The railing creaks beneath her as she leans further over it, trying to catch a glimpse of burnished, unkempt hair. Varric Tethras grins up at her with bags under his eyes. “You’re up early.”

“You know me,” Hawke says. “Lounging in bed is nothing but a bore, these days.”

Varric snorts, and Hawke warms at the sight of him rolling his eyes. “Clearly you’re not spending your time there properly,” he leers. “Need someone to warm up your sheets?”

It’s a familiar joke, but Hawke launches the butt of her joint at him, anyway. Varric raises an amused eyebrow as the sparking green lands in the grass several feet from him. He exaggerates a sigh as he steps forward to stamp the fire out.

“Come on, Varric,” Hawke says, scoffing. “You can do better than that.”

“Ah, but do I have to?” Varric teases.

Hawke flicks him off. She turns back to her apartment quickly enough to hide her smile while he laughs behind her and waves a hand as he calls out a goodbye. She doesn’t look behind her to see the sun catching in the loose strands of his hair – but then again, she doesn’t need to. It’s a picture she’s seen plenty of times before.

Hawke putters in the living room and listens for the sound of Varric’s door closing behind him. She flinches when her sister, Bethany, crawls out of her separate bedroom, then composes herself and grins as her sister passes her by, intent on conquering the bathroom. Hawke watches her as she goes, then moves to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

When Bethany emerges, the whole of the apartment smells like burnt beans. She groans as she comes into the kitchen wearing nothing but a bathrobe and a pitiful expression. Hawke snickers and deliberately ignores the ruined filter in the sink as she passes her sister a mug. Bethany glowers at her, then goes up on her toes to grab a bag of sugar. Hawke watches, amused, as her sister scoops spoonful after spoonful into her cup.

“You couldn’t sleep, could you?” Bethany asks, pressing her mug against her mouth.

Hawke raises her own cup in a gentle salute. The couch, some several feet away, has an indent where she likes to sit; she sinks into it and lets Beth come and settle next to her like a lonesome cat.

Hawke shifts so her sister’s head rests in the crook between her neck and jaw. “Nothing worse than usual,” she murmurs.

“Was it mother?” Beth asks. “Or Carver?”

The remnants of her joint dies in the back of Hawke’s throat. She forces herself to swallow her sip of coffee, ignoring the way the flavor mixes with broken glass and blood. She doesn’t speak until her stomach has settled, and even then, it’s difficult to make the words leave her throat. “Both. Felt like the accident was going on forever.”

Bethany hums and presses closer to Hawke’s body. Hawke peels a hand off of her mug and runs it through her sister’s hair before pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’s nothing new,” she says, forcing a lopsided smile. “Go on, get ready. One of us has to be a real adult today.”

Bethany rolls her eyes and huffs, lingering for a moment longer in Hawke’s warmth before doing as she says. Hawke swats at the back of her thighs as she goes, and Bethany squeals. For a moment, Hawke sees her sister as she used to be: bright and bubbly and as flushed as the sunrise. She fixes the picture in her mind and feels the curve of her grin soften into something more genuine.

She shoos Bethany out the door some twenty minutes later. Bethany waves at her as Hawke makes her way onto the balcony, all the while sprinting towards the carpool waiting at the corner. She hears Varric call, “Have a good day at work, Sunshine!” and sees, behind the wheel, Bethany’s coworker, Isabela lean forward to honk her horn. Bethany giggles, though, as she slides into the passenger’s seat. Even at a distance, Hawke knows that Isabelle grins back.

Cup of coffee still in hand, Hawke glances down and finds Varric looking up at her. Isabela’s tires squeal as she peels out of the parking lot.

“Something on my face, Tethras?” Hawke calls.

Varric laughs. The sound echoes through the parking lot and off of the other buildings. “You want the pleasure of my company this morning or not, Hawke?”

Still in the t-shirt she slept in, ragged and tasting of mocha, Hawke smirks. “Oh, when have I ever been able to say no to you?”

Varric shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking for all the world like the cat who’s eaten the canary. “Give me a minute,” he says, “and don’t drink all the coffee.”

Hawke grins as she makes her way back inside. She takes the pot of coffee from its warmer and pours herself a second cup before fishing a third mug down from her cabinet. She’s pulling milk from the refrigerator – a day past expiring – when Varric knocks on her door. He doesn’t wait for her to open it for him; instead, he presses into the room and throws himself down on her couch.

Hawke glances at him over her shoulder and sees him set a plain cardboard box down on her coffee table. “You’re the picture of courtesy, aren’t you?” she calls. She double fists the mugs as she walks back to the living room.

Varric raises an eyebrow at her as she sticks the lighter of the two just beneath his nose. “You wouldn’t know what to do without me,” he says. He takes a sip of coffee and winces, but doesn’t bother setting the mug aside. “Why do you hate yourself, Hawke?”

“Not all of us are morning people,” Hawke replies. She sits down next to him and takes a dainty sip of her coffee before throwing her legs over Varric’s. He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t nudge her aside.

“So.” Hawke cants her head to the side. “What’s in the box?”

Varric hums and holds his mug close to his face. “Nosy, aren’t you?” he says. “Rude, too. ‘Oh, how are you, Varric?’” His imitation of her is a breathy, too-light thing. “Oh, you know, Hawke: I stayed up so late trying to meet my deadline that I haven’t actually slept yet.”

Hawke snorts into her mug.

“‘Varric, shame on you,’” the man continues, “‘why, fall into my bed immediately; clearly you need it more than I do.’”

“You’re determined today,” Hawke says with a laugh. She nudges his thigh with her foot as her smirk falls into something fonder. “Have you heard from your editor yet?”

Varric huffs and brushes a strand of bright hair away from his face. “Nothing yet,” he replies, “but at this point, no news is good news, I think.”

Hawke hums in agreement. She focuses in on her coffee, then, and lets the silence between them becomes companionable. Varric radiates warmth in the tipping chill of autumn, and he doesn’t force her legs off of his, even as he leans forward to fish for her remote. The television buzzes as he switches it on.

They watch the news for several minutes, listening to soundbites from the mayor of Kirkwall as he responds to the city’s refugee crisis and abrupt economic downturn. Hawke scowls into the remains of her coffee as the chief of police – Meredith Stannard – appears on screen.

“Have you heard from Aveline lately?” Varric asks. Subtly, he changes the channel. Meredith’s face disappears in favor of a recap of the local high school’s latest football game.

“It’s been a few weeks,” Hawke admits. “She’s gone quiet ever since we...freelanced with her, I suppose. I don’t think her captain took kindly to the outside help.”

Varric snorts, and despite the guilt lingering in her chest, Hawke smiles. “We’re a little too vigilante, I suppose,” he says.

“Maybe.” Hawke shrugs. “We get the job done, though. The force never examines their cases closely enough, especially not for Aveline’s liking.”

“Still,” Varric says with a sigh, “an author, a delivery girl, and a couple of coders don’t for a crack team make.”

“Why, Varric,” Hawke scoffs, pulling herself up in a fit of false offense, “you discredit us!”

She watches him bite back a smile and ignores the warmth spreading through her chest. “Maybe a little,” he admits, “but don’t get too offended.”

He pats her knee, then shoves her legs off of his in order to stand. Hawke watches appreciatively as he stretches, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. Writer or not, she knows he spends most of his time away from his apartment; what he does, though, remains a mystery.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he says, setting the mug down on the table. “Or whatever it is you’re calling this slush. You always know how to wake me up in the morning.”

Hawke leans forward and wrinkles her nose at the inch of liquid still left in his cup. “What?” she teases, “too dark?”

“We haven’t all burnt our taste buds out of our mouth,” Varric tells her. He pushes towards the door while Hawke gathers up his cup and presses her lips to the rim. She misses the way he falters at the sight, too busy chugging the milky dregs he’s left behind. Hawke smacks her lips when she finishes and glances towards the door.

Varric, hand on the door handle, shakes his head.

“What about your box?” Hawke asks, setting the now-empty mug down beside it.

Varric’s responsive grin tilts mischievous. “Oh, that?” he says, opening up the door. “It’s a gift.”

“Presents?” Hawke preens. “And it’s not even my birthday.”

Varric rolls his eyes as he finally departs. “Enjoy it!” he calls as the door falls shut.

Hawke leans back on the couch and listens as he thunders down the stairs. The click of his door makes her sigh; the final signal of his retreat.

He has a roommate, she thinks – a young man studying medicine at the University of Kirkwall – but she’s rarely seen him around the complex. If the two of them cross paths, well – Varric’s been slow to introduce her, and Hawke’s not been over enough to run into him on her own.

She runs a hand through her own ragged hair and forces herself not to linger on the healthy flush of Varric’s cheeks. She prods the box he’s left behind with a long finger. He’s given her gifts before – small things, mostly food or hipster craft beer. He’s known her for long enough that each is a testament to months of interchangeable inside jokes.

Hawke weighs the box in her hands, then shakes it, listening to the rustle of – something, just inside. She cuts through the tap on the edges with a sharp fingernail and pulls the cardboard open with a satisfied grunt. The swath of tissue paper that greets her is punctuated only by a note written in Varric’s trademark scrawl.

| Hawke – you’re not allowed to kill me. See if you can’t find a way to spend a few more hours in bed. - V

Hawke tilts her head, considering, as a slow smile creeping across her lips. She sets the note aside, then paws her way through the tissue paper.

When the last of it is abandoned on the floor, she narrows her eyes. Her smile slips as her mouth falls open.

Still in clear, plastic packaging, and tinted a fine shade of pink, is a vibrator. A teardrop vibrator, its bullet attached by a wire to a simple dial. Hawke picks it up with careful fingers and examines it from all angles, heat curling in her core while amusement plays across her lips. After a moment, she sets the vibrator aside and slips off of the couch, moving towards the closest air vent.

“Pervert!” she calls, choking on her laughter. Through the floor, she thinks she hears a trace of Varric’s laughter.

Hawke stands up and brushes off her knees, shaking her head as she goes. He’ll expect her to use it right away; she knows he will. Instead, Hawke packs the vibrator in its tissue paper and takes the box into her closet. She tucks it out of sight, behind a pile of sweaters that no longer fit, and makes for the shower, instead.

As the water patters down on her back, she bites her bottom lip. It’s not – unusual, necessarily, that he’d buy her something like this; they’ve always toed the line of their friendship, exchanging coy glances over the heads of Bethany’s girlfriends or the few acquaintances they share. Hawke runs a soapy hand through her hair and sighs.

He’d been thinking about this for a while, then – her sleeplessness, or the gift itself. Hawke ignores the resurgence of heat beneath her belly and turns down the temperature of the water. She hisses and reminds herself to focus on the task at hand. Vibrators and musings on Varric later. Right now, she has to keep her shampoo from getting in her eyes.

*

By the time she leaves for work, Varric has disappeared, either into the depths of his apartment or into the city at large. Hawke shakes her head at his doorway and climbs aboard her motorcycle. The engine purrs beneath her, and she feels something tight in her chest – something like sleeplessness, or anxiety – begin to unwind.

She doesn’t think about the vibrator until her shift has passed, too busy running deliveries of shawarma and lamb meat to college students and business men alike. When she climbs off of her motorcycle in the evening, she sees Varric’s light lit behind his curtains. She taps on his door as she passes but doesn’t linger, instead dragging herself over her own threshold before he can answer.

Bethany smiles at her from their stove, half-bent over a pan full of chicken. “How does chicken alfredo sound?” she asks as Hawke collapses onto the couch.

“Are you making your own white sauce?” Hawke calls. Her voice is muffled by a thick layer of cushion. Bethany’s laughter loosens some of the muscles in her back, and Hawke grins into the worn out couch.

“When do I not?” her sister replies.

Hawke offers her an exhausted thumbs up and curls in on herself, shifting to the side so as to better pull her knees against her chest.

She watches Bethany work until the girl sets the pasta to boil, then forces herself upright. She peels off her work shirt before entering her bedroom and ignores her sister’s scoff before kicking the door closed behind her.

Her bra is damp with sweat, and Hawke doesn’t hesitate before undoing the clasps and throwing it into a corner. Her bedroom is littered with stiffened socks and the occasional undergarment. Hawke toes at one of the piles as she undoes the button of her pants and lets out a delighted noise as she finds an old hoodie. She pulls it over her head, then shimmies out of her pants before collapsing on the bed.

The warmth of the covers is enough to lull her into a semblance of relaxation. Hawke shifts and purrs, even as the box springs squeak beneath her weight.

It doesn’t take long for her mind to wander. Hawke bites her lip and lets her hand trail over one of her bare thighs. Warmth swells in her, even as she winces at the chill of her fingertips. Idly, she presses a palm against her sex, imagining a faceless figure lavishing kisses against the curve of her jaw.

She lets two fingers linger against her clit, separated by the fabric of her underwear, as the fantasy takes shape. She presses her lips together against a slow build of pleasure, all the while letting her blurry lover drag his hands though her hair; press his cock against her sex; run his tongue against the seam of her mouth.

It’s a nice idea, but it leaves her unsatisfied, plateauing after a few minutes. Hawke grumbles under her breath and brings herself up on her elbows to glare at her bedroom door.

She bites her lip and shifts, shivering as pleasure simmers between her legs. Unwillingly, she finds herself glancing towards towards her closet.

“It’s not like he’s going to know,” she mutters, already swinging her legs off of the bed. Varric’s shock of hair, tied back in his usual ponytail, streaks through her mind alongside his self-satisfied smirk, but the wetness between her thighs drives away any prickling of concern Hawke tries to cling to. She fishes the bullet out from its box and re-positions herself on the bed. After a moment of fidgeting, she rolls her thumb over the vibrator’s dial and moves the bullet against her clit.

The rumble is immediately. Hawke sucks in a gasp and arcs her hips into the pressure, bringing the hand holding the vibrator’s dial to her mouth to keep from making any noise. She shove her underwear out of the way and leaves the fabric clinging to her thighs. The improved contact makes her want to sob. Hawke closes her eyes and falls back into the fantasy; a faceless stranger above her, one of her hands wrapped in his hair as he grins against her, hands at her breasts. He tweaks her nipples and presses kisses to her jawline before sucking on her lower lip.

Hawke whimpers and presses her eyes closed. The bullet is too small to hit both her clit and slit at once, so she focuses on the small pearl of nerves and feels herself sprinting towards a climax. Her imaginary lover kisses her until her mouth bruises, then moves himself down her stomach until he’s positioned between her legs.

It’s only when, in her mind’s eye, Hawke sees Varric’s eyes twinkling at her from between her thighs, that she comes, shuddering and choking back her cries of pleasure.

She leaves the vibrator on as she pulses, letting it guide her as she slows her breathing. The come down is full of aborted pulsing; Hawke groans and ignores the trickling of sweat sticking her bangs to her forehead.

After a minute, she musters the energy to turn the vibrator off. She sets it on her bedside table with a clatter and forces herself to open her eyes.

If she tries, she can hear Varric chuckling in her ears, raspy and satisfied. Hawke lifts her middle finger to her mental image of the man and ignores the wash of affection as she imagines the deepening of his smile lines.

Her door shudders. Hawke jolts and reaches for her covers, but Bethany stops short of entering the room after knocking. “Come on, Marian,” she calls through the wood. “The pasta's done, and it’s going to get cold if you don’t get it soon!”

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Hawke calls back. She forces her bangs away from her forehead and slips out of bed, pulling her underwear back into place as she goes. She rummages through her closet until she finds a pair of mesh shorts. She drags them on, then grabs for the vibrator and wraps it in a dirty shirt before swanning out into the living room.

Bethany glances at her sidelong from the couch, then refocuses her attention on the television. Hawke spoons herself a bowl full of chicken alfredo, then comes to sit next to her sister. She squints at the screen before taking a bite of her dinner. “What is this?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Some travel show,” Bethany replies. “Varric’s roommate’s been watching some odd things on Netflix, but this doesn’t seem so bad.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. Bethany meet her gaze with a wry smile. “If he didn’t want us using his account,” she says, “he wouldn’t have given us the password.”

Hawke chuckles and concedes the point. “That man has got to want something from us,” she says, biting into a piece of chicken. “No one can be this generous.”

She thinks Bethany glances at her again, but Hawke chooses to ignore the gesture. “Maybe he just likes us,” her sister says, at last. “I mean, we’ve known him for, what, a year now? A year and a half? He’s had plenty of opportunities to run, and he hasn’t.”

Hawke laughs into her bowl and leans her head against her sister’s shoulder. “Fair enough,” she says.

They stay together on the couch through another episode and a half, leaving their empty bowls on the coffee table. When Bethany begins to doze, Hawke shimmies forward and gropes for the remote. She switches off the television, then reaches and grabs Bethany beneath the armpits. Her sister grumbles but moves dutifully into the bathroom, where she brushes her teeth before shuffling into her own bedroom.

Hawke watches her go and lets fondness worm its way into her chest. She waits until she hears her sister start to snore, then moves to one of the lesser used cabinets. Hawke rolls herself a joint and slips onto the balcony, where a few brave stars begin to peak through the light pollution that settles the night sky a strange shade of grey. She flicks on her lighter and sets the joint ablaze, then lets her feet dangle through the balcony’s broad railing.

She’s not surprised when she hears the door to Varric’s balcony slide open. He’s quick to settle beneath her, likely smoking a joint of his own.

Hawke knows that if she were to glance down, she’d be able to see the top of his head, but she doesn’t. She presses her head against the wood of the railing, instead, and tries to ignore the wetness lingering between her legs.

They smoke in silence for some time, while the stars and moon continue to shift overhead.

“Hawke,” Varric’s voice comes, at last. “Did I – overstep?”

Hawke hums at the softness of his voice and feels the fondness in her chest start to swell. “Please,” she scoffs, careful to keep her tone light. “It takes more than that to offend me.”

Varric chuckles – or she thinks he does, past the smoke. “Perhaps you’ll be able to sleep easier, now,” he says.

Hawke lets them sink into silence, then twitches as she feels his hand brush against the bottom of her foot.

“Stop worrying,” she says, kicking in the direction of his face.

“Worrying’s what I do, Hawke,” Varric replies, but amusement overtakes the seriousness in his voice. Hawke shifts to press her cheek against the railing and chases after the warmth of his touch, even as he pulls his hand away.

She doesn’t thank him, and he doesn’t seem to expect her to. Instead, she stays on her balcony until her joint’s burnt out. With reluctance, Hawke pulls her legs up and stands, stretching as she does.

“Good night, Varric,” she calls, moving back towards her door.

“Good night, Hawke. Sleep easy.” Varric’s voice trails upward like smoke, and Hawke pauses, letting it sink into the curling and shadowed parts of her heart. She smiles as she locks the door to the balcony behind her and tells herself that she doesn’t know the reason why.

**Author's Note:**

> Reread and take a shot every time someone laughs, giggles, or snorts. Actually, don't; you might die. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
